


An Amalgam of Desires

by koritsimou



Series: To find more [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, and my first time writing these boys, this is my first ao3 post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koritsimou/pseuds/koritsimou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan is in love, by no means a surprising revelation, but with whom rather is.</p><p>(Or "Alexa asked for jehan/courf/parnasse and I tried to oblige, but Courf demanded an explanation first.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pembroke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pembroke/gifts).



> Please forgive my flagrant over/mis-use of semicolons, which is entirely Victor Hugo’s fault. Actually, all of this is entirely Hugo’s fault, isn’t it.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://asongbirdandanoldhat.tumblr.com/post/41776993214/pembroke-if-you-love-me-you-will-write-some).

The cafe is already busy when Jehan arrives; the noise a quiet but steady babble, particularly around the tables by the back window where his friends are congregated, as is their norm. He passes Courfeyrac at the counter, giving him a smile in greeting as he unwinds his scarf. He recognises Courfeyrac’s bag on an empty chair and across from it, a plastic flower stolen from the vase on the counter keeps a chair for Jehan. He smiles again, as he moves it to the table, to sit.

“Good morning, my darling Jehan,” Courfeyrac crows when he returns, laden with steaming cups. He leans across the low table to place an extremely fragrant cup of blossom earl grey in front of Jehan, and as he straightens makes to kiss him lightly on the top of his head. Jehan loves kisses; gives them freely to all of his close friends and is often the recipient of an affectionate peck from them in return. But something about Courfeyrac’s have always seemed a little different, so on this occasion he raises a hand and catches Courfeyrac’s face. He ponders the soft curve of Courfeyrac’s cheek as his thumb trails down it, in contrast to another. He is not comparing, he tells himself, just noticing.

He lets his thumb trace the corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth and says, “I’m seeing someone.”

“A fact which has escaped no one’s notice,” Courfeyrac agrees, his breath condensing on Jehan’s thumb. “Least of all mine.”

Jehan releases him and Courfeyrac smiles as he sits. “You scream it from the mountain-tops, with your face,” he explains and Jehan blushes.

“Although truly you would normally be screaming it with your voice also, or singing it, or at least reciting a few new sonnets. It is rather unusual for you not to have told us before now.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t ask. And he will happily never ask. Jehan loves that about him. His trust is such that he does not require to know your secrets to be willing to keep them for you.

“I know.” Jehan weighs up how he feels that Eponine, who Jehan himself barely knows, knows and Courfeyrac, his best friend, does not, and resolves to tell him soon. Today, maybe.

Courfeyrac picks up his coffee and the topic at hand is finished. Bahorel engages him in a discussion of the relative merits of pastries versus cakes from the table behind him and Jehan ponders thoughts of curves and soft pillowed flesh against sharp angles and rough skin, but his journal stays closed on the coffee table before him.

“What do you think, Jehan?” Courfeyrac asks, swinging back round in his seat and plonking his empty mug down on their table. “Another cup and perhaps a pain au chocolat?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you would like to get lunch?” Jehan asks, settling his own cup down gently.

“Sounds wonderful,” Courfeyrac’s smile is broad.

“Do you mind if we stop at mine so I can fetch a warmer sweater first?” Jehan asks. The combination of his favourite scarf and new cardigan had not been as suitable for the wind this morning as he had hoped, despite the day being mild for November.

“On one condition,” Courfeyrac says seriously.

“What is that?”

“It must have at least one flower upon it.”

Jehan frowns slightly, sensing mocking, but plays along. “I suppose I may be able to fulfill that requirement.”

———

When they reach Jehan’s small apartment, Courfeyrac follows him along the hall to his bedroom. As Jehan sheds his cardigan and moves towards his painted wooden dresser to find a warmer alternative, Courfeyrac’s eyes are drawn to the glimpse of the pale, bare and really rather shapely arse and legs visible beneath Jehan’ s rucked up, hideous crocheted comforter.

“Jean Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac extols, impressed. “I wouldn’t have cast you as the type to lock him in and keep him for later.”

“What?” Jehan turns to Courfeyrac, an oversized sweater in a deep rosy pink in hand. 

“But I approve,” Courf continues, nodding towards the bed.

Jehan turns to the bed and a small smile begins to creep onto his face at the sight but soon vanishes, and his face flushes to match the sweater that falls from his hand. “Oh my God, I didn’t know he was here.”

“What d’you mean you didn’t know he was here?” Courfeyrac asks.

Jehan turns back to him and exclaims, “Oh my God, Courfeyrac, close your eyes.”

“I didn’t invite _myself_ into your room to perv on your boyfriend,” Courfeyrac says accusingly. “But I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or a gift ass,” he adds, gleefully.

“You’re an ass,” Jehan yells in a whisper, and tries to cover Courfeyrac’s eyes. Courfeyrac has a good six inches on him though, and bats his hands away, laughing.

“I still don’t understand how you couldn’t have known he was here-”

“I still don’t understand why you’re still in the room,” Jehan interrupts, futilely trying to steer Courfeyrac to the door using his tiny frame. Courfeyrac persists.

“-you must have locked him in.”

Jehan gives an exasperated huff. “I did not lock him in. He was working last night, he wasn’t back when I left for the cafe, he obviously let himself in after that,” Jehan explains in a furious whisper. “Now, can we please-”

“He broke into your flat?!” Courfeyrac says, incredulous. He finally tears his eyes from the slumbering stranger and stares instead at Jehan, who honestly cannot tell if Courfeyrac is having an especially dense morning or if he just wants to hear Jehan say it. Jehan says it.

“He has a key.”

“Oh.” The surprised sound that escapes Courfeyrac and the fact that in its wake, Jehan is able to push him back another step, seem to support the idea that Courfeyrac had not even considered that a possibility. A dense morning, indeed.

“Can we please go now?” Jehan asks, giving Courfeyrac another shove. “You’re going to wake him.” It’s a lie, nothing short of a small explosion will wake the man in his bed after a night shift, but Courfeyrac doesn’t need to know that.

“Um, too late?”

Jehan looks up to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes, but they are fixed on a point behind him; a point from which now comes a quiet groan and the familiar whumpf of someone rolling over. Jehan is perfectly positioned to take in Courfeyrac’s interested stare, to watch his eyes widen with surprise and then, with an immediacy that physically pains Jehan, to see them harden with recognition.

This surprise is evidently bigger than the last, and Jehan is able to push Courfeyrac the rest of the way out of his room and into the hall. Despite the even breathing coming from the bed, Jehan still looks back across the room before he shuts the door. 

There are no windows in the hall and Courfeyrac’s features are lost in the gloom. For this Jehan is grateful; he has no desire to see the expression that goes with Courfeyrac’s tone of voice when he hisses, “Montparnasse?” Of course, _now_ he whispers.

Jehan cuts straight past Courfeyrac towards the living room, and tells himself sharply that Courfeyrac hasn’t even said anything and as such it is entirely unacceptable for him to cry. He tries to do his friend greater credit and not presume he already knows what Courfeyrac shall say. He takes a deep breath and waits in the centre of the bright room.

Courfeyrac joins him there when he regains motor function.

“Jehan, you know that I respect you far too much to ever to tell you who you should,” and here, Courfeyrac points with both hands to himself, but Jehan does not let himself smile, “or should not,” and here Courfeyrac cannot help the flick of his eyes to the door, “sleep with.”

Jehan crosses his arms against the oncoming ‘but’.

“But, Montparnasse?” Jehan’s teeth hurt, his jaw is so tightly clenched. “Jehan, no. I know-”

“-of him,” Jehan finishes his sentence with more truth than he knows Courfeyrac would. “You know of him. Courfeyrac knows everyone, he’s everybody’s friend, but no. You don’t. You don’t know him. _I_ know him. I am still getting to know him, and I have no intention of stopping.”

“He’s-”

“What? He’s what, Courf?” Jehan interrupts him again. “A bad man? He is not perfect, but who of us is. He is good to me, Courfeyrac.”

“And he has a key.”

“Yes. He has your— the spare key.” Courfeyrac’s face falls and Jehan feels some of his indignation falter. In truth it is the spare key, that which usually resides taped to the underside of the welcome mat, but none of his friends have ever used it to let themselves in except Courfeyrac. The others all knock. Courfeyrac never knocks.

“He’s dangerous,” Courfeyrac says with finality.

“So am I,” Jehan says defiantly, chin held high. Courfeyrac gives him an indulgent look, and Jehan uncrosses his arms to poke him in the chest. “I could be. I would be, if I had to.”

“You probably would,” Courfeyrac agrees, after a pause.

“I am not going to defend him, to you. He- We do not owe you proof. My feelings should be enough, Courfeyrac.”

“I agree,” Courfeyrac says, looking a little ashamed. “You know I only ask because I care deeply for you, Jehan, but are you sure?”

Jehan laughs. It is not a sound of merriment. “Am I sure? Of Parnasse? Of myself? I am sure of everything and nothing. When I am with him I am sure of all, yet when he looks at me I am not even sure of the ground beneath my feet.” Jehan sighs, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks straight at Courfeyrac and says, “I am sure that he makes me happy.”

Courfeyrac looks straight back and says, “Then I am sure that we will be friends. Do you think he would like to join us for lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed my jehan/courf, jehan/parnasse, pre-jehan/courf/parnasse blend. 
> 
> It's my first time writing any of them, and my first time posting on AO3, and as such, any feedback or comments are greatly appreciated. Since I have a feeling these boys aren’t going to leave me alone anytime soon.
> 
> And as it isn't Les Mis without a pun, a gold star to any of your who rolled your eyes at Courf's terrible one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I continue my attempt at jehan/courf/parnasse, and this time it is Parnasse demanding an explanation. Poor Jehan. He's going to have to work on them both for a while yet, I suspect.

_Do you think he would like to join us for lunch?_

 

Jehan wants to throw his arms around Courfeyrac at his words, but with the sudden release of tension, he feels a little shaky, so he takes a small step forwards and sinks into Courfeyrac’s ready embrace instead. Small hands slip around Courfeyrac’s waist and tighten in his shirt, and Jehan buries his face in Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Jehan presses gratitude into Courfeyrac’s skin, through his shirt. Courfeyrac wraps long arms around Jehan, pulls him impossibly closer, and presses a kiss to his hair.

“Alright, but you’re buying, Bowtie,” a low voice says from the door.

Courfeyrac takes a surprised and somewhat guilty step away from Jehan, but is quickly reeled back in. Jehan hooks his chin over Courfeyrac’s shoulder to look at Parnasse.

“What ar- Did we wake you?” Jehan asks, remembering his earlier lie.

Parnasse only shrugs in answer. Suspicious, Jehan releases Courfeyrac and steps around him to better look at Parnasse. Courfeyrac turns for a better look too; his first good look at Jehan’s so recently unveiled boyfriend.

Parnasse is leaning against the doorframe with effortless grace. His arms are crossed, the points of his elbows like knives. He is strikingly beautiful; long planes of pale skin only interrupted by a pair of black boxers. His jet black hair is a little sleep-mussed; most of it still held back off his face, but a few daring escaped strands soften the hard angles of his sharp jaw and long nose. He is tall and slim and _relaxed_ , obviously comfortable despite his near nakedness, but his eyes are bright and keen; his long limbs are a picture of lazy ease, but Courfeyrac doesn’t doubt for a second that Parnasse’s mind is alert.

Parnasse ignores Jehan’s questioning glance to smirk at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac drops his gaze and attempts to excuse himself. “Uhm, I’ll wait in the... kitchen. Or outside?” 

“Don’t be daft, Courf,” Jehan says. “I’ll just be a second, then we’ll go.”

Courfeyrac watches him move to the door and give Parnasse a small shove. Parnasse pushes himself off the doorframe, but he doesn’t yield to Jehan’s nudge. He stands tall and tilts Jehan’s face upwards, one hand on his jaw. Parnasse catches Courfeyrac’s eye and maintains that eye contact for as long as possible, as he slowly drops his head and catches Jehan’s lips in a bruising kiss.

Jehan gives a small surprised gasp, which Parnasse swallows hungrily. Jehan’s face flushes, but he returns the kiss eagerly, biting at Parnasse’s mouth. He snakes his arms around Parnasse’s neck, one hand slipping into his hair and holding on. Parnasse wraps a possessive arm around Jehan’s waist, steadying him as he presses Jehan into a near backbend. It’s a long moment before they surface. Jehan hides his breathlessness and blush against Parnasse’s chest, then gives the warm muscle under his hands another shove.

“Nice meeting you,” Parnasse smirks over Jehan’s head, before he finally heeds Jehan’s push and steers them out of the room.

Once back in his room, Jehan sweeps his thumbs across the bags under Parnasse’s eyes and inspects his face. “When did you get in? How much sleep have you actually had?”

He steps back and subjects Parnasse to a quick once over. “You could have got dressed, you know. I’d have expected you to desire a decidedly more fashionable first impression.” Jehan plucks at the waistband of the plain black boxers.

Parnasse addresses all of Jehan’s queries together. “I would have,” he agrees, “had it _been_ a first impression.”

Confusion clouds Jehan’s face for but a moment, before he cries, “Oh my God, you were awake?” He punches Parnasse lightly on the arm. “I _knew_ we couldn’t have woken you.”

Parnasse’s lips twitch, the beginnings of an amused smile.

“Your friend...” Parnasse pauses, and though he suspects Parnasse knows perfectly well the identity of the man in the living room, Jehan supplies, “Courfeyrac.”

“Your friend, Courfeyrac,” Parnasse repeats, “has good taste.”

“Oh shut up,” Jehan tells Parnasse’s smug grin. “You’re not coming to lunch,” he says, voice serious now.

“Oh, I think I should-”

“Parnasse, you were out all night,” Jehan says, pleadingly.

“- Good manners, once invited,” Parnasse continues, speaking over Jehan. “And I can keep an eye on that taste of his.”

“You need to slee- Wait, what?” Jehan’s brow wrinkles in confusion, and Parnasse shakes his head.

“You, who could romanticise a stubbed toe and sees love in everything,” he says, fondly. “But of course, you don’t see it when it is staring you straight in the face, literally wrapped in a bow.” He cups Jehan’s face with one hand and meets his eyes. “You really have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are, do you?”

“He’s into you,” Parnasse explains. “Like I said, good taste. Excepting the chinos.”

“I thought we were talking about you,” Jehan says.

“We were,” Parnasse accepts with a slight nod. “And now we’re talking about you. Keep up, darling.” Parnasse strokes gently at Jehan’s jaw as he releases his face, then runs his hand through Jehan’s hair. “Your _friend_ wants in your truly hideous pants.”

“That’s not- Courfeyrac and I-” Jehan sputters, flustered. “Courf flirts with everyone,” he says eventually. “That’s just what he’s like.”

“And I’m sure his guilty jump away from you when I interrupted,” Parnasse breaks off for a beat, then continues, “and the way his eyes followed you leaving the living room - that’s just ‘what he’s like’ too.”

“Yes,” Jehan says, emphatically. And it isn’t a lie - that _is_ just what Courfeyrac is like. That it is just what Courfeyrac is like _with Jehan_ , is not something he feels the need to make clear.

“You’re blushing,” Parnasse observes, with his jaw tight.

“I’m always blushing,” Jehan says, watching as Parnasse scrapes back his increasingly floppy hair. The usually meticulous style is wilting.

“No, Jehan. You started blushing when I said ‘interrupted’,” Parnasse says carefully. “Is this something we need to talk about?”

“Oh my God, are you kidding me?” Jehan cries, a different kind of flustered now. “You weren’t asleep, so don’t even begin to pretend you didn’t hear us talking.”

“Yeah,” Parnasse says, eyes stony. “I heard him proposition you and tell you I’m not good enough for you, as if I don’t kn-”

Jehan slaps a hand across Parnasse’s mouth, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he commands. “You will not belittle my judgement with any self-deprecating bullshit.” Parnasse stares moodily at Jehan, but he does not try to remove his hand.

“And it is bullshit,” Jehan adds. “You fucking love yourself, so don’t you dare suggest that I shouldn’t love you too. You get just as little say in this as Courf does. I love you. And nothing _anyone_ has to say about that matters in the least to me.”

The glint in Parnasse’s eyes has changed, but not softened. When Jehan finally drops his hand, Parnasse surges forward to catch his mouth in a searing kiss. He fists his hands in Jehan’s t-shirt and licks surely into his mouth. In just the last few minutes, Jehan has rather incredibly worked himself up, and as much for kissing, as being kissed, he returns it fiercely, lifting his hands to pull on Parnasse’s limp hair, and manhandling him to better the angle for himself.

When they eventually break apart, Parnasse breathes deeply into Jehan’s hair and Jehan says firmly, “You are not coming to lunch.” It only comes out a little breathless.

“I still don’t like how he looks at you,” Parnasse grumbles, darkly, as Jehans finally picks out a sweater - thick, knitted and blue, adorned with three large orange tulips - even though the thought of putting it on now is laughable, with his blood running so hot.

Jehan takes a deep breath and turns to face Parnasse again. “Courfeyrac and I, well, I’m not going to pretend it’s never been a possibility. But _no_ ,” Jehan says firmly, “this is not something we have to talk about.”

Parnasse’s expression is torn between his insufferable I-knew-it face and a grumpy pout. Jehan looks away from his abused mouth and adds, “It is something we _can_ talk about, if you want, and it’s actually something I think I would like to talk about.” Parnasse raises one slender eyebrow, but says nothing. “But not now,” Jehans finishes. “Now you are going to go to bed and get some sleep, and I’m going to go for lunch with my _best friend_ and wax poetic about how wonderful my _boyfriend_ is. Plan?”

Parnasse tugs Jehan closer and traces a small circle on the inside of his wrist as he nods and yawns. “Plan.” He follows Jehan to the door and leans against the doorjamb as Jehan floats down the hall to fetch Courfeyrac. Parnasse still glares a little at him, as he exits, but appears to grudgingly respect Courfeyrac’s answering frown.

“Sweet dreams,” Jehan calls through the narrowing space as he pulls the front door closed behind him, “of me.” When it finally clicks shut, Parnasse turns on his heel, collapses into bed and buries a tiny fond smile in Jehan’s too soft pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please point out any errors if you spot them. (This was mostly written and edited at ridiculous times of various mornings.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courf and Jehan finally make it to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Longest chapter so far? And yet very little happens. Sorry, fabellae. Hope you enjoy it, despite the lack of action.
> 
> Also see the end for some rather overdue information on setting.

“I’m exhausted,” Jehan sighs, as they sit. He slumps forward, pillowing his head face-down on his arms.

They're at Jehan’s favourite cafe. Jehan loves the Musain, and the leeway that their at times boisterous crowd of friends are afforded there, but QualiTEA is small and cosy, with calm but pleasant staff and fresh cut flowers on the tables, and just five minutes from Jehan's flat; the last may or may not have been a factor in Jehan’s decision to move into his flat after halls. Jehan and Courfeyrac have been lunching there together since Jehan discovered the cafe in their last term of first year; Jehan has never taken anyone else.

It’s the kind of place with regulars who are greeted by name, and where he and Courfeyrac only ever wait to be seated if they're favourite table is already occupied. Karen, their usual waitress, a friendly but quiet local, greets them with menus and confirms their drinks order with easy efficiency. It helps that Jehan is addicted to their raspberry and cranberry tea and that their disgustingly sweet caramel iced coffee is Courfeyrac's favourite way to caffeinate. Jehan sits up and politely enquires after Karen and her four year old daughter, Elsie, and waits until she floats back to the counter before making a bed of the table again.

Courfeyrac observes him over his menu, with an amused smile. “Tired yourself out, shouting at me,” he says, tentatively.

“I did not shout at you,” Jehan says, indignantly, but his words lose their oomph as he doesn’t lift his head.

“Quite true. You just admirably performed the Jean Prouvaire equivalent,” Courfeyrac says, abandoning his entirely unnecessary perusal of the menu. “The angry eyes, the sharp finger jabs, the humbling hard truths.”

“It’s hardly Enjolras Enraged,” Jehan mutters into his arms, but loud enough for Courfeyrac to hear. He lifts his head to share a smile. “Drinking at Starbucks and disappointing humanity.”

“Worse,” Courfeyrac says honestly. “Disappointing my best friend.”

“Courf,” Jehan starts, with a distressed look, but Courfeyrac interrupts.

“No, Jehan, you were right. And I’m sorry. And it’s not a defence, but I was a little surprised.”

Jehan takes the offered prompt. “I should have told you sooner. I kept meaning to, but well-” Jehan blushes, “I kind of liked no one knowing - it just being us. And I guess I was a little worried about how everyone would react. Still am, actually.”

Courfeyrac, smiling at Jehan’s admission, asks, “So no one else knows?”

Jehan shakes his head. His long hair sweeps the edge of the table. “Just you, and Eponine.” Jehan watches Courfeyrac’s eyes carefully but sees nothing there that suggests he is bothered by someone else having known before him. “I wanted to tell you first. That’s actually what lunch was for. I was going to tell you about us today. I didn’t expect him to be at the flat. When he wasn’t there when I woke up, I figured he’d gone home after work.”

Jehan’s fading blush is now accompanied by a slightly guilty countenance. Courfeyrac stretches across the table, where Jehan’s arms still rest, and squeezes Jehan’s hand. “It’s okay. Tell me now.”

“What?”

Courfeyrac lets go of Jehan to sweep his hand through the air between them. “Tell me about Montparnasse.”

“Oh,” and just like that Jehan’s blush is back. “You can probably just call him Parnasse. He won’t mind. Well, he might mind, but he’ll get over it.” Jehan smiles.

“Tell me about Parnasse,” Courfeyrac amends. “When did you start- uh-” Jehan raises an amused eyebrow, but doesn’t offer Courfeyrac an out. “-dating?” Courfeyrac decides upon.

"I guess about three weeks ago," Jehan says after a pause.

"Three weeks?" Courfeyrac entirely fails to hide his surprise. "And he already has a key?" he asks a little quieter, but with an uncomfortable air.

Jehan welcomes the interruption of their drinks arriving. He takes his pot of tea straight out of Karen's hands and busies himself with pouring it after she slides his cup onto the table. “Thank you, Karen,” he says.

“No bother, love,” she smiles, and places Courfeyrac’s tall frosted glass in front of him. “What can I get you boys to eat?”

“What’s the-” Jehan starts.

“Carrot and coriander,” Karen answers preemptively. “You want it?”

Jehan nods. “Please.” Jehan passes her his unused menu and she turns to Courfeyrac.

“French toast?” she grins, and it stopped being funny years ago, but Karen still fondly remembers Courfeyrac questioning the dish’s name on their first visit. It’s been his favourite item on the menu since he convinced them to make it with cinnamon for him - ‘ _the way pain perdu should_ ’, he claimed.

“Yeah, thanks,” Courfeyrac says. He passes Karen his menu, but his eyes are still on Jehan.

“With bacon?” Karen asks, and Courfeyrac nods. “And syrup?” Courfeyrac gives Karen a look and she laughs richly. “Just checking, monsieur,” she says, with her perfectly terrible French accent.

“One soup of the day and one french toast with bacon and syrup,” Karen rhymes off unnecessarily. “Be with you soon, lads.”

When Karen is gone, Courfeyrac returns his gaze to Jehan. Jehan stirs his tea. Courfeyrac coughs and Jehan stirs his tea. No one puts milk in fruit tea, and Jehan doesn’t take sugar, but still, he stirs his tea. 

“A key,” Courfeyrac prompts, before Jehan can stir his tea cold.

“Well, he kept forgetting to put it back outside after letting himself in, and I got tired of having to get up and let him in,” Jehan says, like it was that simple, because it was that simple. Jehan may not have been able to sleep the night before he nonchalantly pressed the spare key into Parnasse’s hand as he left and told him to ‘’just keep it”, but the actual decision was simple; Jehan couldn’t think of a time he wouldn’t want Parnasse around - he still can’t. He has no use for a locked door.

“But you’ve only known him three weeks,” Courfeyrac says, like he hopes he’ll be corrected. He is.

“You asked how long we’ve been dating,” Jehan reminds him. “Our first actual date was about three weeks ago.”

“Pedant,” Courfeyrac mutters, but he’s smiling. “When did you meet? _How_ did you meet?”

Jehan assumes he means ‘properly’, as although he doesn’t know everyone like Courfeyrac seems to, Jehan had been vaguely aware of Parnasse since sometime after Eponine and Grantaire had moved into the same building in second year. 

“Um, I think he was at Eponine’s Welcome Back “we-better-have-a-lot-of-parties-this-term-because-we’re-fourth-years-now-so-will-all-be-holed-up-with-our-dissertations-next-term” Party,” Jehan says, with air-quotes and a blush that renders the “I think” redundant. “I didn’t speak to him, though. But after that, I just kept seeing him around. We’d talk a little- well, I did most of it. I don’t remember what about at all. But if I was talking, he stopped to listen, so I talked. A lot. And when that didn’t put him off, I was more willing to accept it wasn’t just coincidence bringing us together, and I got a little bolder.” Jehan pulls his sleeves over his hands and ducks his head to hide a small grin. “I asked him if he was following me, and he asked if it would go for him or against him if he was, and then disappeared like the freaking batman before I could answer. Which actually gave me time to think about what the answer was. And then on Hallowe’en,” realisation dawns on Courfeyrac’s face at the mention of the holiday, “we made out in Enjolras’ room,” Jehans rushes. “And I asked him out.”

Jehan’s face is as red as his tea when he finishes, and he takes a drink to avoid looking at Courfeyrac.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, after an excruciating and probably deliberately long pause. “Some of us did note your disappearance, but God, Jehan, I cannot believe you were the one who wrinkled the coats.”

Jehan’s laugh is startled out of him. The wrinkled coats had been a true Enjolras Enraged moment. Grantaire had gained permission to throw a Hallowe’en party at Enjolras’ considerably-larger-than-his-own flat under the regularly emphasised conditions that Enjolras’ room was out-of-bounds to everyone except Enjolras himself, and reluctantly Grantaire, though Enjolras made it clear that there would really be no reason for Grantaire to be in there whilst they still had guests, as Enjolras would take charge of taking and later returning people’s coats and the room was definitely not going to be used for any other purpose. Almost a month later and any reference to the wrinkled coats still causes Enjolras to bristle, and sparks a massive review of possible culprits and explanations amongst Les Amis.

“I had a fiver on Grantaire having briefly passed out in there,” Courfeyrac shakes his head in mock sadness.

“Sorry,” Jehan smiles.

“Oh no, don’t apologise. I am far too impressed to hold it against you. Impressed and a little bit proud. I cannot believe you got through so many whodunnit discussions without the least suspicion. What a feat of masterful deception.”

Jehan takes a tiny bow in his seat. “No one suspects the innocent poet.”

“I will from now on,” Courfeyrac says, and Jehan is relieved by how easy it is to smile around his teacup at him, as Courfeyrac makes jokes.

“So stalking’s a turn on for you, who knew,” Courfeyrac quips.

Jehan makes a face as Karen appears with their food. She slides it onto the table without any commentary and Jehan searches for the right words as Courfeyrac thanks her.

“He was so quiet and would just appear out of nowhere. The mystery was exciting,” Jehan says, over his steaming soup. “He made me feel exciting. And although he’s not nearly so cool as he would have everyone believe, he still makes me feel like that. He makes me feel interesting, like genuinely worthy of interest. And he’s charming and fascinating and he makes me feel amazing, but he’s also infuriating, and a massive pain in the ass, and sometimes he can be quite hurtful. He’s very real. Everything feels very real, when I’m with him. And I love it. I’m in love with how he makes me feel - wonderful and awful both. I’m- I’m in love with him.”

Courfeyrac slices sharply through french toast and bacon both, and says, “That’s wonderful, Jehan. I’m happy for you.”

Jehan wishes he could believe that was all there was to it. He butters his roll and asks, “What’s new with you?”

Courfeyrac swallows, takes a long gulp of his iced coffee and answers, “Very little.”

Jehan tries to chat inconsequentially through the meal, about classes, their friends, and how long they think it will be before Enjolras realises Grantaire has basically moved in with him, but Courfeyrac continues to bring the topic back to Parnasse - yet always naturally. It never seems like he’s forcing the conversation.

Jehan starts to realise how little he really knows about Parnasse under the keen questioning. He ignores the awkwardness that inspires, and talks a lot about himself instead, whilst still keeping Parnasse the subject of their conversation, as Courfeyrac seems to intend.

It gets easier after a while, and Jehan catches Courfeyrac smiling fondly at him after a monologue on the butterflies that seemed to take up permanent residence inside Jehan during the month of October.

Eventually conversation does turn to other things and they finish their lunch laughing together over a recent hypochondriac episode of Joly’s that saw him throwing out everything in his and Bossuet’s freezer. Courfeyrac grins across the table at Jehan and asks, “Do you want another pot of tea?”

Jehan shakes his head. “I should probably go. I’ve got a seminar at four and I haven’t actually finished looking at the questions.” Jehan pushes his chair back from the table and says, “But thanks. I needed this. I’m glad you know. I missed talking to you.”

“Always glad to listen to you, Jehan,” Courfeyrac says gently, before standing as well. Jehan slips a hand into the tight pocket of his vibrant floral patterned jeans, but Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I’ll get lunch. You go. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jehan smiles and reaches out to pull Courfeyrac into a hug.

Courfeyrac wraps his arms around Jehan’s shoulders and presses Jehan to him. “Good. Good chat, and goodbye, Jehan.”

“Ciao, cara mia,” Jehan whispers into Courfeyrac’s shirt. They part. Jehan waves to Karen as he floats to the door. Once there, he turns back to smile at Courfeyrac, who is watching him. They are too far apart for Jehan to tell if Courfeyrac’s answering smile reaches his eyes.

Courfeyrac starts digging around for his wallet and Jehan decides to quickly use the bathroom before he leaves, and slips down the stairs by the door. He’s just reaching the top of them again when he hears words that give him reason to pause.

“You two would make a cute couple,” Karen is saying.

“I will not deny that I agree,” Courfeyrac says, voice casual. “We are both devilishly handsome.”

Jehan thinks he should make himself known whilst this is still being played as a joke. But then Karen asks, “Does he know?” and Jehan presses himself against the stairwell and waits for Courfeyrac’s answer.

“Sometimes I think he can’t possibly not, but honestly I don’t know. He is not as easy to predict as his faithful tea order would suggest,” Courfeyrac says, still aiming for lighthearted, but missing, and Jehan can’t help but note the relevance of his words, when assigned to the surprise of Parnasse.

There is a pause in which Jehan starts to panic that Courfeyrac may also choose to use the facilities before he leaves, before Karen speaks again. Jehan can perfectly imagine the look being levelled at Courfeyrac along with her words. “Have you _told_ him?”

“There are always reasons not to,” Courfeyrac says in response. “Chiefly and ever presently, he is my _best friend_. And most recently there is his unfairly attractive new boyfriend.”

They move closer to the door. Jehan can see Karen’s back. He moves down a step, and he can only see a sliver of her. It disappears too as she moves forward to give Courfeyrac a hug.

“Chin up, sweetie,” she says. “There’s only so long he can stare at that handsome mug of yours without falling for you.”

She’s right, of course, Jehan thinks as Courfeyrac murmurs a goodbye. If Jehan’s memory can be trusted, it took about three months.

Courfeyrac had given Jehan a poetry anthology - that Jehan had actually already owned - for Christmas in first year, which he had annotated himself, with amusing comments, the occasional thoughtfully highlighted line and, of course, numerous scribbled WTF’s and question marks. Jehan had laughed until tears pricked at his eyes at Courfeyrac’s scrawled outrage in the margins of The Young Man’s Song ( _HE FLIPPED A COIN. AND THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE ROMANTIC?! “oh, my love, how did you know I was the one?” “flipped a coin. head’s you were it, and here I am.” This would have been a shit poem if it’d come up tails, dude. Bloody Irishmen and their gambling. Head’s I love her, tail’s I drink. ONE SHOULD NOT DECIDE TO PURSUE LOVE WITH THE SAME METHOD ONE USES TO DECIDE WHO HAS TO EMPTY THE BIN. JUST SAYING, YEATS._ ) 

Jehan didn’t flip a coin, but he realised then, that he loved him. But as Courfeyrac cited - he is his best friend.

Jehan waits a full minute after Courfeyrac has left before he follows him out of the cafe. He counts on Courfeyrac’s significantly longer stride to give him a safe enough distance, and meanders to class with a head full of what ifs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I originally intended to write this with an ambiguous setting, so you could kind of decide for yourself where they were studying, but university structures and what are all so different, and I was definitely sticking to 'write what you know', and now there are background ocs, so I might as well tell you that in my head, they are studying in in the UK, Scotland specifically. My university has a massive international contingent, so I'm okay with throwing a bunch of French kids into my own city for this, even if Enjolras' love of Patria is a little difficult to square with that. 
> 
> So most courses here are four years long, and it's pretty common for people to live in university accommodation, or "halls", in their first year, as Jehan did. And I don't think there's anything else in this that requires explanation, but if I'm wrong on that, feel free to drop questions in the comments or you can hit me up on [tumblr](http://asongbirdandanoldhat.tumblr.com/ask).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The last bit of Amalgam. But certainly not the end of this story, as such. There will be more to To Find More. Maybe I'll even manage to actually write some jehan/courf/parnasse one day.
> 
> I actually thought I was going to finish with lunch. But then Courf. (A sentence I seem to be uttering a lot, lately.)

Courfeyrac dumps himself onto the sofa with a sigh as soon as he’s home. Marius pokes his head out of his bedroom door. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says shortly. “No,” he says a beat later. “I just really thought,” he looks up at Marius’ disembodied head and stops. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting ready to go to the cinema with Cosette,” Marius says brightly. “And I’m not currently wearing a shirt, so.” A bare shoulder appears as Marius shrugs. “I’m perfectly willing to be a listening ear from here though.”

Courfeyrac surveys his flatmate of nearly three years and shakes his head. How this boy has retained any sense of modesty after living with Courfeyrac for so long baffles him. He cannot count the number of times he’s seen Marius missing some significant item of clothing; he’s a total lightweight, and easily influenced at the best of times, and their crowd is the kind of group of friends that delights in a little good natured humiliation - well, enough of them are for it to be a regular aim.

“Thanks, but you really aren’t who I want to talk to about this,” Courfeyrac sighs again. He doesn’t mean it as harshly as it sounds, but he doesn’t think he can stomach Marius’ endless optimism right now.

“Okay,” Marius says easily.

Marius disappears back into his room and Courfeyrac ponders to whom exactly he does want to talk. Ignoring the inconvenience that the answer is always Jehan, Courfeyrac texts Combeferre.

**Hey Ferre. You at home? xx**

**Yes. C**

Combeferre is the only one of his friends with whom Courfeyrac has shared his feelings for Jehan. Courfeyrac is not an idiot. He knows some, probably most, of the others have suspicions. His lack of interest in a relationship - the term Courfeyrac has rather generously given any brief encounter or short-lived fling in which he has engaged - over the past year and a half was quickly noted as uncharacteristic, but fell out of favour as a target of mockery just as fast, when the first of his friends began to pick up on the reason.

**You busy? xx**

**Yes. C**

Combeferre is one of Les Amis whom Courfeyrac met first. Of the others, he has only known Enjolras longer. Courfeyrac trusts them both completely, but Enjolras, though brilliant and always willing to help, isn’t the greatest with- well, it took him three years to figure out his own feelings, so Courfeyrac reckons he probably made the right call in not burdening him with his, too. Combeferre is a good listener and very practical, a solid choice of confidant, even if Courfeyrac rarely actually takes his advice.

**Can I come bother you anyway? xx**

**Since I doubt this reply has any bearing on your decision, sure. C**

 

The walk to Combeferre’s flat takes less than ten minutes, but Courfeyrac grabs his ipod from his room before he leaves. He jams the earphones in his ears in the stairwell, and puts it on shuffle. He doesn’t much care what is playing, but he is sure to turn it up full, to better drown out the voice in his head - Jehan’s voice - shy and pleased, repeating “ _He makes me feel interesting, like genuinely worthy of interest._ ”

 

“Am I to presume by your visit that lunch with Jehan didn’t go well?” Combeferre asks, when he answers the door.

Courfeyrac makes a face and brushes past his friend into the neat flat. “How did you know I had lunch with Jehan?” he asks. Combeferre hadn’t been at the cafe this morning, because he’d had a class. Of course, so had Bahorel, and Courfeyrac himself, but sometimes you just have to give in and accept the undeniable truth that a lie in and fresh croissant is better for your mental health than a 9am lecture.

Combeferre only smiles and shakes his head in answer. He slips past Courfeyrac and into the kitchen. Courfeyrac hears the click of the kettle and Combeferre asks, “Is this a coffee or beer conversation?”

Courfeyrac leans casually against the kitchen door and asks, “I don’t know. What are we going to be talking about?”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow and Courfeyrac crosses his arms. Combeferre silently opens the fridge and passes Courfeyrac a beer. Courfeyrac takes it and sighs. “Yeah, probably.” Combeferre pulls a jar of instant coffee from the cupboard, the barbarian, and Courfeyrac asks, “Not joining me?”

“I’m writing an essay,” Combeferre excuses himself. “But I would enjoy nothing more than spending a well-deserved break hearing of your latest entirely avoidable woe.”

“You’re a good friend, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac says, both sarcastic and serious.

“Come on,” Combeferre pushes him towards the living area. “You’ve got fifteen minutes. Sit down and fill me in.”

Courfeyrac sits on the couch and pulls the tab on his beer. He takes a sip and says, “So.”

“So, Jehan has a boyfriend, and it still isn’t you.” Combeferre cuts to the chase, as he drops down beside Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac frowns. “Your sympathy knows no bounds, ‘Ferre.”

“My sympathy has perfectly reasonable boundaries. And you’ve been pushing them for years. Remember how I patted you on the head and let you cry on me when Jehan started seeing - uh, tall guy, built like a rugby player, engineering.”

“Joshua,” Courfeyrac supplies. “He _was_ a rugby player. And I’d like to state for the record that I was really, really drunk that night.” Courfeyrac takes another long drink.

“You were,” Combeferre agrees, graciously. “Anyway, I have loads of sympathy.” Courfeyrac says nothing. “I take it Jehan spent the entire meal talking about him.”

“No, it was different actually. I think maybe worse.” Courfeyrac takes another drink, deciding he can blame the beer later for anything he might say. “He kept talking about himself.”

“And that’s worse?” Combeferre asks, with genuine curiosity.

“Normally when Jehan falls for someone, he delights in telling you all about them - what makes them interesting, special, what makes them worthy of being loved,” Courfeyrac explains. He sounds resigned, which, Courfeyrac thinks, at least means he sounds slightly less like an expert discussing their specialist subject. “But Jehan barely spoke about M- his boyfriend. He spoke about himself, about how- his boyfriend makes _him_ feel interesting and special. And God, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac exclaims, no longer sounding resigned, but rather broken, “he _is_ and he deserves to feel that way, and that’s what I want for him, but the suggestion that he hasn’t felt like that ‘til now feels like a knife. What the hell have I been doing for three years if he doesn’t already know those things for the irrefutable facts they are.”

Combeferre doesn’t mention Courfeyrac’s near slip, or the easy to make assumption that he knows who Jehan is seeing but doesn’t want Combeferre to, but he does question, “Three years?”

“I’ve known Jehan was special since the day we met,” Courfeyrac says solemnly, and Combeferre nods. “Even if all this -” Courfeyrac gestures in the air with his can, “- came later, I’ve always known he was special.”

Combeferre pats him on the arm. “I don’t really have anything to say that I haven’t said before,” he says gently. Combeferre has been a patient advocate of ‘tell him how you feel’ since Courfeyrac first confided in him.

Courfeyrac sighs into his beer. “I know. I just- I always thought that eventually there would be a right time, y’know. When I’d know I wasn’t risking trapping him into something he didn’t want. I thought at some point, he’d be ready to give up falling in love, to fall in love, and that he’d realise I was there, for that. I didn’t mind the waiting. Not really. That’s why I never told him, despite your repetitive advice. But I wasn’t prepared for him to reach that point with someone else, and I think that’s what’s happened.” Courfeyrac rests his can on the coffee table and buries his head in his hands. “It sounds ridiculously egotistical, I’m sure, but I always thought he’d end up with me, eventually. But I think I missed my chance, ‘Ferre,” he mutters sadly.

Combeferre frowns and pulls Courfeyrac against him. “My essay isn’t due ‘til next week and I’m more than halfway done,” Combeferre says calmly. Courfeyrac recognises it for the invitation it is. Although he’s a good bit taller than Combeferre, Courfeyrac wraps his arms around his friend and leans his head on his chest. He closes his eyes as Combeferre slowly cards a hand through Courfeyrac’s hair. Courfeyrac does not cry, but he does exceed his allotted fifteen minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm sorry. If you want to yell at me, you can do it below or in my tumblr [askbox](http://asongbirdandanoldhat.tumblr.com/ask). Poor Courf. It hurt me too. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, lovelies, for the kudos and the comments. So glad to know people are enjoying this little venture.


End file.
